


Giving In To Contradictions

by GoldenUsagi



Series: Giving In To Contradictions [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Succubi & Incubi, Asexuality, M/M, Magical Realism, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Succubi & Incubi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1394626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenUsagi/pseuds/GoldenUsagi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing that John learned about Sherlock was that he hated being hit on.  While there was nothing particular that identified an incubus as such, people could just <i>tell</i>.  But Sherlock didn’t deal with requests for his attention in the favourable way other incubi did.  Instead, he would sweep his piercing gaze over the offender and then deliver a scathing put-down enumerating the reasons he wasn’t interested in sexual congress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giving In To Contradictions

**Author's Note:**

> Entanglednow and I have decided that we will each try to write one fic a month where Sherlock is some sort of supernatural creature. Be sure to check out her [incubus!Sherlock](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1394608) fic as well!
> 
> Beta'd by entanglednow and verdant_fire.

John still wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up sharing a flat with an incubus. He certainly hadn’t intended to. It wasn’t really a _done_ thing, for starters. It was common sense not to live with an incubus unless you were aiming to get sex from them, which went against a whole other branch of common sense.

But somewhere between Sherlock’s initial introduction ( _‘I play the violin when I’m thinking. I’m also an incubus. Would that bother you?’_ ) and John shooting a man for him, he’d gotten caught up in the storm that was Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock being an incubus wasn’t even a factor in why John had felt the sudden need to hold on to Sherlock and not let go.

Figuratively, of course. Because holding on to an incubus in any other way probably wouldn’t end well for him. Sherlock was attractive, but it was a moot point as far as John was concerned.

Even if it hadn’t been, the first thing that John learned about Sherlock was that he _hated_ being hit on. While there was nothing particular that identified an incubus as such, more often than not, people could just _tell_. But Sherlock didn’t deal with requests for his attention in the favourable way other incubi did. Instead of agreeing to the invitation or responding with vague flirtation, Sherlock would sweep his piercing gaze over the offender and then deliver a scathing put-down enumerating the reasons he wasn’t interested in sexual congress. 

People didn’t usually react well, to put it lightly, and such encounters typically ended with the person storming off insulted or with Sherlock making a dramatic exit. While John could appreciate how tired he himself would (eventually) become of being propositioned every time he showed his face in public, the truth was, it was different with incubi. Incubi and succubi weren’t so much sexually liberal as they, well, treated sex like lunch. It was a simple fact that they needed sex like humans needed sleep and food. Having an incubus turn you down for sex was as bizarre as opening up a vein and having a vampire simply watch you bleed out in the street. 

At any rate, it made John wonder about Sherlock’s own rebuke to him at Angelo’s, which was light years removed from the contemptuous remarks Sherlock threw at others. Of course, John hadn’t been trying to get him into bed, so maybe that allowed for the milder response. Still, John now knew it was an incredibly rare use of tact on Sherlock’s part, for whatever reason.

He had quickly realised that Sherlock kept his sex life absolutely separate from everything else. It was eccentric to the point of being unheard of. But that was perhaps one reason that while John complained good-naturedly about most of the bizarre, mundane things Sherlock seemed to think he should do, the one thing John didn’t complain about were the emails. It had become something of a routine by now.

When John came downstairs in the morning, Sherlock extended his arm, holding the laptop out. At least it was his own this time, not John’s.

“John. Email.”

“Hold on a minute.”

John went into the kitchen, starting some tea.

“One for me,” came Sherlock’s voice from the sitting room.

“Yes, yes,” John muttered.

After the tea was done, John brought the cups in and took a seat in his chair, exchanging a cup for Sherlock’s laptop. He started going through the emails.

He’d noticed, of course, the first time that he’d looked at Sherlock’s website, the text directly above Sherlock’s contact information: ALL SEXUAL PROPOSITIONS WILL BE DELETED UNREAD.

Somehow, in the course of their living together, ‘deleted unread’ had turned into “John, get rid of anything boring.” John had to admit that he was surprised by the number of sex emails Sherlock got. They weren’t even spam; they were personal emails. Nowhere on the site did it advertise the fact that Sherlock was an incubus, but word still got out.

“Try to be more careful this time,” Sherlock said, having switched to looking at his phone as he sipped his tea.

“Yes, fine,” John said absently.

“I lost a whole day’s head start on the murdered prostitute.”

“I was skimming that day, I know. I saw ‘prostitute’ and thought it was a come on. They emailed again about it, didn’t they? Anyway, you said it was a boring murder once we got there.”

“It was still a murder.”

“Do you want me to do this or not?” John asked. 

Sherlock didn’t say anything else, which John took as an indication that Sherlock wanted him to continue.

However, then Sherlock said, “I get entirely too many cases revolving around sex.”

“I suppose people figure you have some expertise in the area,” John offered.

“It’s the most base of motivations, and it never changes. It’s never _interesting_.”

John shrugged. “Some people figure sex is always interesting.”

Sherlock sank further into his chair, looking sulky and doing that ridiculous pouting thing he did, even though he was over thirty years old. He didn’t offer a response.

John realised this was the most they had ever talked about sex. They hadn’t even had the conversation about rules for having someone over. John had figured that he would broach the topic the first time Sherlock brought someone home. But after almost a month, John had yet to see Sherlock in the company of anyone. 

Though he had woken up in the middle of the night several times to find Sherlock absent. Whatever arrangement Sherlock had, he obviously preferred his privacy.

Which was fine. It was all fine. 

John clicked to delete another email. 

\-----

While Sherlock seemed to actively dislike or ignore most things that came with being an incubus, he shamelessly used his powers of persuasion when he needed to get information out of someone. Most of the time, it wasn’t necessary, as whatever lie Sherlock spun achieved the intended results. However, he was always ready to pull out the final weapon in his arsenal in the pursuit of the data he wanted.

John could recognise it coming now, despite having only seen it a few times. Sherlock’s eyes would get a peculiar lazy look, his voice would drop, and his mouth would turn up with a hint of a seductive smile. And he would get whatever he wanted, without the person even remembering they’d volunteered the information.

Really, it was a bit chilling to watch. Sherlock was only asking questions, but the fact remained that he was bending someone to his will.

After they left the suspect’s office and were back on the street, John said, “That was illegal. You realise that.”

“So is breaking and entering,” Sherlock said, unconcerned.

John knew that Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate the moral nuances between different illegal activities.

The ability to influence humans was one of the reasons that incubi were potentially dangerous to be around. It was the same with a vampire’s thrall or a faerie’s glamour; all had the ability to take away free will. The extent of what you could make someone do was dependent on both the will of the person and the will of the other being involved.

It was highly illegal, of course. But unless there were witnesses or it was obviously caught on camera, it was impossible to identify, as the victims themselves never remembered. Everyone knew it happened more often than it should. There was even a legal defence for acts committed while under another’s power. But controlling others in any way was strictly forbidden. The only ones permitted to do it were special investigators, and even then there were protocol scripts, numerous witnesses and detailed recordings.

“You don’t have a licence, I assume?”

Sherlock snorted. “Of course not.”

“After you figured out the link was the bookkeeper, we should have called Lestrade. He would have had someone get the embezzler’s name out him.”

“And that would have taken days. Whereas now, we can go straight to their flat before they have time to remove the evidence.” Sherlock gave him a sideways look. “I didn’t do anything you truly consider morally objectionable, or we would be having a discussion about something other than technicalities. I used my usual methods to ascertain as much as I could, and then I used the resources available to me.”

John, picking his battles, decided it wasn’t worth pursuing, and they fell into silence. Still, he wondered about Sherlock’s casual attitude toward influencing people. It was, well, a bit not good.

Of course, the influencing thing was what made some people wary of incubi. Their ability to make a person do something, plus their need of sex for sustenance, led to a particular conclusion. That was definitely illegal, on more than one count. But it also happened, and wasn’t an unfounded worry by any means. John had never considered it as even a possibility, given that Sherlock had made it quite clear he had no interest in John sexually. Since sex complications of any sort were off the table, they’d never really gotten round to having a discussion about other boundaries.

“Whatever it is, just spit it out,” Sherlock snapped. “I can _hear_ you thinking.”

John cleared his throat. “You’ve never, uh, done that to me, have you? I can live with body parts in the fridge and criminals breaking in and even the occasional chemical fire, but not with having my mind messed with. Not even for something like making me do the washing up.”

Sherlock stopped walking and turned to face John with a penetrating expression. But John saw none of what he expected—indignation at John’s suggested accusation. John didn’t know what it said that Sherlock thought it perfectly natural that John might think that, and wasn’t insulted by it.

“No,” Sherlock said. “I haven’t. And I wouldn’t.”

He was so completely serious and earnest that John could only nod.

“Besides,” Sherlock said, his mouth quirking up, “If I had, you wouldn’t complain about the washing up at all.”

John laughed abruptly. 

Sherlock joined him, and after a moment, they started walking again, still occasionally snickering.

It wasn’t really an appropriate reaction to a conversation about usurping personal autonomy, but inappropriate reactions seemed pretty standard for John these days.

\-----

The thing that John had immediately learned about living with an incubus was that everyone thought they were having sex. Everyone.

The sole person who didn’t was Mycroft, and that was only because he was eerily omniscient. But from the people he and Sherlock encountered on cases to friends like Lestrade, everyone else thought they were doing it. At one point, John had even found out that there was a pool going at the Yard about how long John would last. John hadn’t bothered to discover whether the bet was for how long he would last as a flatmate or how long he would last, full stop.

Of course, that was the thing about incubi. Their long-term partners tended not to come out well. Death wasn’t uncommon. An incubus who killed their partner would end up being charged with what basically amounted to involuntary manslaughter; not that that would give _you_ much comfort if you were dead. But for all that humans and other beings were equal under the law, incubi were regarded as only slightly less dangerous than vampires to have a continuing association with.

Lots of people slept with incubi and succubi, usually as one-offs. Most people considered it no different than a one-night stand picked up at a pub (with the added bonus of the sex being guaranteed to be fantastic), though there were still those who thought it worse than paying a prostitute. In general, sleeping with an incubus once was safe enough, but an ongoing relationship with the same incubus drained the human more and more until they wasted away or worse. Even among the freest of thinkers, people who actually became _involved_ with incubi were looked at sadly—groupies addicted to the thing that was going to destroy them.

Even though John knew all of this, he still hadn’t quite figured on what kind of a nutter he was going to seem to society at large. He got used to the shaking of heads from random strangers, but the fact that people he knew thought he was sleeping with Sherlock, even after he told them otherwise, was beginning to grate at him. 

Just that day when he came in from the surgery, Mrs. Hudson had stopped him in the hall and given him a casserole dish of something, whispering that he needed to keep his strength up. John had accepted it with as much good grace as he could muster.

However, when he got to the top of the stairs, he was thoroughly annoyed. He put the dish into the fridge with a clatter and slammed the door.

Sherlock, seated at the table with his microscope, hadn’t looked up once.

“She still thinks we’re sleeping together,” John announced. “Says I need to keep up my strength. That’s not even how it _works_.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed.

“ _Everyone_ thinks we’re sleeping together.”

“Of course they do. Though if they would merely _observe_ , they would see the absurdity of it. It would be physically impossible for you to maintain a sexual relationship with me for this long without beginning to fall into poor health.” Still without looking up, he added, “Though you’ve thought about it.”

“What?” John sputtered.

“You’ve thought about having sex with me.”

John knew there were two ways to handle this. He could lie about it and insult Sherlock’s intelligence, or he could admit it and have whatever conversation followed. Since keeping any secret from Sherlock was laughable, John decided to go with option two.

“Okay, I have. But it doesn’t mean anything.”

“You’re bisexual, even though you primarily date women. Not that it matters, as incubi and succubi are commonly regarded as ‘not counting’ even if they’re not your preferred gender. I’m very attractive—”

“And modest.”

“—so it’s natural you would consider it at some point, even if only abstractly.”

“Right,” John said slowly. “Like I said, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“And if it did?”

John wasn’t quite sure where Sherlock was going with this. Not that Sherlock was helping, still completely focused on the microscope. “You’re my best friend,” John said. “I’m hardly going to ask you for a quickie.” Knowing how Sherlock felt about random strangers propositioning him, John could only imagine how affronted he would be if a friend were to do the same thing.

“Good.”

“Did you think I would?”

“No. It never occurred to me that you would want a liaison merely for the sake of it.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything else, and John frowned at his back for several moments before going to take a shower.

It wasn’t until he was lying in bed that night that the words _And if it did?_ came back to him.

Had Sherlock actually been asking about more than sex? If he didn’t think John would ask for a random shag, well, what other kind of shag was there? The kind you had because of romantic interest.

John lay awake for a long time.

\-----

Once John thought of the idea, it wouldn’t go away.

Did he think of Sherlock as more than a friend? His immediate response was no, but there was an undeniable connection between them that he couldn’t quite explain. It was just easier not to make an effort to quantify it. When he did think about their relationship, John was too worried about losing it entirely to push the boundaries of what they had.

Of course, things couldn’t actually go further between them, not like that. Which is why John eventually stopped dwelling on it. It didn’t matter if he sometimes felt something deeper for Sherlock than friendship. Sherlock had given no indication that he felt anything of the sort. 

So John pushed the thoughts aside, and never looked at them too closely until it all came to a head a few months later. 

They were on a particularly nasty case with some international traffickers. He and Sherlock had been separated while chasing a member of the gang through a shipping yard, and John had been taken, knocked out by a hard blow from behind. He had then been used as a distraction for Sherlock, who had immediately shifted his priorities when sent a picture of John trussed up in a nondescript warehouse that could have been anywhere.

Sherlock found him, naturally, but John still spent hours with his hands tied behind his back, a taut rope around his neck, and a bucket under his feet that he could only balance precariously on. He nearly cried with relief when the door slammed open, outlining Sherlock’s silhouette.

“John!”

Sherlock ran toward him. Then he was there, snapping out a knife and cutting the rope over John’s head. John collapsed into him as Sherlock set him on the ground. Sherlock followed him down until they were both a tangle of limbs on the floor.

“Are you all right?”

Sherlock looked horrible. And wonderful. The thought crossed John’s mind that that wasn’t how someone looked at their friend, no matter how worried they were.

“John, _are you all right_?”

“Yeah,” John managed. “Yeah. Just my head. Get my hands, would you?”

Sherlock moved behind him, cutting the ties that bound his hands together. After another moment, John found his legs again, and still leaning on Sherlock, they made their way out of the warehouse.

There were police cars and an ambulance there, Sherlock having alerted the proper authorities even though he’d taken off on his own once he’d determined John’s location. John was checked out by the responders and pronounced to have a concussion but nothing more.

The cab ride back to Baker Street was silent, but John’s thoughts were thundering in his head. He kept thinking back to Sherlock’s question from months ago. At the time, he had thought Sherlock was inquiring solely because of potential feelings on John’s part, but after seeing the look on Sherlock’s face tonight, John wasn’t so sure. 

John knew that hinting around about the topic would only lead to Sherlock shutting down the conversation before it started. The best way to have a discussion about something Sherlock was reticent about was to just say it straight out with no warning.

Once they were in 221B, John was settled in his chair by Sherlock with a cup of tea, and Sherlock sat across from him, watching John intently as if he expected spontaneous complications from the concussion to occur.

John took a sip of tea, set the cup down, and said, “What would you say if I said I wanted to sleep with you?”

“I’d say you have a concussion.”

John’s mouth twitched. “If I said it when I didn’t have a concussion, then.”

“I’d say no.”

“Because we wouldn’t be able to stop and it would slowly kill me?”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he had a peculiarly blank, yet challenging expression on his face. “Because I don’t want to have sex with you.”

John was thrown for a moment. He honestly hadn’t expected that. “But you do want something.”

“Yes.”

John absently licked his lips. “What?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes. Yes, it does.”

Sherlock looked as if he’d rather be doing anything than having this conversation, but was determined to see it to the end now that it had started. “I want to be more than we are. I want to be your primary relationship. I want you to stop looking for fulfilment elsewhere.”

“Romantic, in other words.”

“Romance usually entails sex,” Sherlock said, sounding like he had just scored a point in an argument John didn’t know they were having.

John was aware that they couldn’t have a sexual relationship anyway, but he pressed on. There was something more important here that he wasn’t grasping. “Why don’t you want to have sex with me?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Because,” he finally said, “I don’t want to have sex with anyone. I’m asexual.”

John blinked. He blinked again.

Then he desperately wracked his brain for anything he had ever read about asexuality. He was familiar with the concept, but not much else. Sherlock was watching him carefully, almost defensively, like he was expecting it to all go downhill from here.

“So what does that mean?” John asked.

“It means I never experience sexual attraction.”

“But…” John struggled to find something to say that didn’t sound idiotic. “But you do have sex?”

“No. Not since shortly after puberty when it first became necessary.”

“Okay,” John said slowly. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but then how are you alive?”

“No doubt you’ve noticed I leave sometimes at night. You assume I have meetings with lovers. I don’t. I go to a private club where I watch and touch, and spend several hours getting what I need. No one knows my reasons for never engaging with them myself; they only know me as the one who likes to watch. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. I derive sustenance, and they get elevated orgasms with their partner of choice simply by my having a hand on them.”

John took a moment to process that. Different types of sexual contact with incubi had different effects. Kissing would give incubi a nice buzz, hand jobs and the like produced something more adequate, and full-blown genital-on-genital contact would give them a total fix. But he had never heard of an incubus simply _touching_ someone before. “Incubi and succubi can do that? Get what they need without actually having sex?”

“It’s more time-consuming, but yes. If your next question is why they don’t, which would you rather do: touch someone having sex or have sex yourself?”

John laughed. “Point made.”

“So you see why I have no interest in a sexual relationship with you. Even if such a thing were a good idea, it’s not something I would care to participate in. And while we could have sex once or twice, perhaps three times, without your suffering any ill effects, sex is abhorrent to me, and I’m not willing to compromise and engage in sexual activity, even to please a partner.”

“I thought asexuality was characterised by disinterest, not, well, abhorrence.”

“I imagine it is, generally. An asexual human, for instance, beyond the difficulty of navigating relationships, can ignore sex if need be. But for me, needing it several times a week to live, being forced to deal with it day in and day out, quickly turned disinterest into hatred. My sexual orientation is completely incompatible with my species.”

So much suddenly made sense: Sherlock’s dislike of people hitting on him, Sherlock not caring that he seemed starved half the time, Sherlock’s noticeable lack of involvement with others of his kind.

“I’m guessing that’s why you don’t get on with other incubi?”

“Quite. It’s also why I have no problems living with a human flatmate. I was hardly going to be tempted to jump on someone when I find the act so detestable to begin with.”

“Well,” John said. “Either way, that still leaves us in the same spot. Whether it’s because you don’t want to, or because it could kill me, it all means no sex. Like I said, I’ve thought about it, but I know that’s where it ends.”

Sherlock brought his hands together. “Your notion of a romantic relationship is tied up with sex.”

“And?”

“Based on that criterion, we don’t seem to be compatible. I wouldn’t even be amenable to being a voyeuristic participant in any relations you have with a third party. I want nothing to do with that aspect of your life, and I understand that being so inflexible is not a good starting point for any relationship.”

“Now hold on. Who said I’d even want you to do that?”

Sherlock continued, undaunted. “You’re very sexually active. You like the sex act itself, but more than that, you like the shared experience. What seems acceptable now won’t be so palatable to you later—”

“I’m not losing you just because of sex!”

That came out louder than John had intended it to.

“I mean…” he started. “Once, you asked me what was between us, what it meant. The answer is, I don’t know. But that’s what relationships are about—finding out. And I want to find out. We’re more than friends already, I think. If there’s more there, then I want that, too.” John paused, staring straight into Sherlock’s eyes. “I want you, Sherlock. You, like you are, and whatever comes with that.”

There was a long pause. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock slowly exhaled. “Thank you,” he said quietly, almost to himself. He looked pleased but surprised. Even if Sherlock hadn’t expected a negative reaction from John while baring his soul, he obviously hadn’t expected to end up here.

“So we’re boyfriends now,” John said, lightening the mood.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the term. “Juvenile,” he scoffed. “We’re partners.”

“What are the ground rules?”

“You can sleep with whomever you want. I don’t care how often you do it or how many people you sleep with. Actually, a large number would be preferable; there’s little chance of attachments with one-night stands. If the sex is meaningless, it’s irrelevant to me.”

John’s brows raised. “You’re serious.”

“Of course I am. Who better than I to separate sex from sentiment? I have no interest in sex with you, but I’m hardly going to demand your celibacy simply because you’re involved with me. There’s no point in your depriving yourself out of some sort of misplaced solidarity. As long as you’re emotionally faithful, why should I care? I could even introduce you at one of the clubs I don’t frequent; it’s an ideal environment for relations with no strings attached.”

“Okay,” John said. “Good to know, I suppose. And I’m not saying that at some point I won’t feel like I need an open relationship, but for right now, I just want to concentrate on us. I don’t actually need to get laid as often as you seem to think.” He smiled. “But back to what I was _actually_ asking: I meant ground rules for us. You know, things like can we sleep in the same bed?”

“Ah.” Sherlock seemed to consider for a moment. “Yes. That would be—nice. I’m not averse to physical affection in and of itself. Anything non-sexual is fine.” Sherlock suddenly stood. “Take off your shirt.”

John smiled, incredulous. “And how is this non-sexual?” But he started undoing his buttons even as he spoke.

Sherlock took off his suit jacket, folding it over a table. “You’ve been favouring your shoulder. Unsurprising, since you spent several hours in an extremely uncomfortable position. A massage will help loosen the muscles and prevent more pain tomorrow.”

Sherlock pointed to his own chair. John moved to sit on the edge of it, and a second later, Sherlock perched on the low back, planting his feet on either side of John.

Then his hands slowly started kneading John’s muscles, beginning with his left shoulder and working outward. Soon John was feeling improved under his touch, the initial soreness relieved before Sherlock started to prod at deeper tissue. It almost seemed to John that Sherlock was apologising for not finding him sooner with every pass of his fingers.

John sighed and relaxed into it. 

He suddenly wondered exactly how Sherlock had found him—what brilliant leaps he’d made from a single grainy mobile phone image, what unbelievable detail had told him exactly where John was.

As if he’d read the question through John’s skin, Sherlock started talking.


End file.
